I’ve always had a thing for the blue-collar guys—the ones who keep their heads down, don’t say much, just clock in, clock out, and let the world forget about them. Maybe it’s because I came from that same stock. Maybe it’s because I knew, deep down, that still waters weren’t just deep—they could be bottomless.
When I worked as an engineer at a machine shop in Milwaukee, Oregon, I liked going down to the floor, rubbing elbows with the guys, watching how the parts I designed got carved out of metal. It was management, sure, but I made it a point to be present. I liked seeing the way people straightened up when I walked through, the way things tightened into focus when a clipboard guy came down from the ivory tower.
There was a guy in shipping—quiet, mustached, covered in tattoos. A steady, reliable kind of guy. He never said much, but he laughed at my jokes, nodded along to my stories, had that unspoken worker-to-worker camaraderie. I liked him. Something about him just fit into the machinery of the place. His name was Ward Weaver.
Years later, when I started my own company and needed reliable machinists, I went back to that shop, only to find out they were on the decline. Boeing had sucked all their union jobs back in-house, and millions in contracts had vanished overnight. They were dying. But I saw an opportunity—snagged some of the best talent from their sinking ship, built up my own operation. I even asked Ward if he wanted to come on board.
I hadn’t seen him in a couple of years. Same mustache, same quiet demeanor, same calm presence. Seemed like the perfect guy for the job.
But Ward Weaver was already up to his own work.
See, Ward had some guests. Two teenage girls. Kids who had nowhere else to go, kids from broken homes—fatherless, ignored, disposable. They hung out at his place, found comfort in the presence of a guy who seemed solid, dependable. They thought he was safe.
He wasn’t.
One day, something inside Ward cracked. Maybe it had been brewing for years—the loneliness, the quiet resentment, the proximity to something young and trusting. Maybe he hadn’t planned it. Maybe it just happened.
One girl went missing.
Then the second came looking for her. Knocked on the door. Have you seen her?
Ward Weaver was already too deep.
What he did to the first, he did to the second.
Now he had two bodies. And a serious problem.
At first, nobody suspected him. But after a few days, questions started circulating. People knew the girls had spent time at his place. The police started asking around. Neighbors whispered. Ward played dumb, but the weight of what he’d done was closing in.
That’s when he made a decision.
He went back to the machine shop, grabbed a couple of 50-gallon plastic drums. Hauled them home in the dead of night. One girl in each. Tight, snug, sealed.
And then he got creative.
While the community put up missing posters, while people searched through the woods and drainage ditches, Ward was busy mixing concrete. He decided to lay a new patio.
He dug out a little extra space in his backyard, just enough to fit the barrels. Hauled them out under the cover of darkness, made sure no one was looking, and slid them into their final resting place. Then he covered them up, dumped a fresh layer of gravel, and called in a cement crew to pour the new slab.
When they came out to do the job, the workers stomped the ground with a tamper, compacting the surface before the pour. They had no idea what they were walking on.
The patio was perfect. Smooth, clean, a flawless piece of home improvement.
For a while, it worked. The rumors swirled, but there was no proof. No bodies. No crime scene. No cause.
It took years before suspicion turned into a case. Before police got the warrant. Before they rolled out the ultrasound machine and swept it over the slab.
And that’s when they found them.
Two barrels, sitting there like secrets that didn’t want to stay buried.
When the news broke, I sat there, looking at the mugshot.
Same mustache. Same quiet expression.
Same fucking guy I used to banter with.
The same guy I nearly hired.
The same guy who laughed at my jokes while two dead girls sat under his feet.
This was the second axe murderer I had crossed paths with in my life.
Two.
How close had I come? How easy would it have been to be the next? What if I had hired him? What if I had worked with him every day, joked around, shared beers, never knowing?
It makes you wonder about people.
The ones who seem harmless.
The ones who don’t talk much.
The ones who listen more than they speak, who nod along, who blend into the background.
How many of them are walking around with bodies under their patios?
How many of them are just waiting for the right moment to snap?
